


a man takes his sadness down to the river

by apolliades



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Athos Angst, Beaches, Death, Depression, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Is there any other genre of Athos fic, M/M, Near Death Experiences, OT4, Polyamory, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Wakes & Funerals, i love to overtag, the answer is non
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 06:55:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11754444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: his knees would hit the cold steel of the tracks and then the train would come, and it would be over - he’d be dead on impact, it would be instant, he imagines. he pictures his body torn apart on the front of the train like a bird broken on the windshield of a car. it would be the easiest thing in the world.this is what it's like to look for death in everything.





	a man takes his sadness down to the river

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in 2015 and revisited it in 2017 because it was so close to being finished it seemed like a waste not to try. apologies for any inconsistencies. i missed these boys. thanks for reading.

_“A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river_  
_but then he’s still left_  
_with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away_  
_but then he’s still left with his hands.”_  
_― Richard Siken, Crush_

 

* * *

 

Athos looks for death in everything.

It’s late, the sky dark and the air cool, but they’ve all had so much to drink that they’re flushed with warmth. They’re waiting for the last train home, the platform crowded with others just like them, worn out from drinking and dancing but still buzzing from the booze in their blood. In the distance Athos can hear the rumble of the approaching train, breaking through the cloud of noise surrounding him, voices and footsteps and laughter. He steps forwards across the platform, towards the edge, and leans forwards just a little.  

In the distance he can see the lights on the front of the train, getting brighter the closer they come, the rumble getting louder.

He stands there quietly and imagines stepping off the platform. His knees would hit the cold steel of the tracks and then the train would come, and it would be over - he’d be dead on impact, it would be instant, he imagines. He pictures his body torn apart on the front of the train like a bird broken on the windshield of a car. It would be the easiest thing in the world.  

And then suddenly with a rush of cold air that makes Athos stumble backwards and a roar that leaves his ears ringing the train is there, the moment has gone, and he’s being jostled towards the doors by the crowd around him. The clap of Porthos’ hand on his shoulder makes him jump a little, and warm breath makes him shiver as he whispers _careful_ in his ear. D’Artagnan’s arm slides around his waist, clinging close as he half drags him into the carriage. Then d’Artagnan is pressed up against him and kissing him all sweet and drunk and sloppy, and Athos lets his hands find d’Artagnan’s slim soft waist and he holds him there and kisses him, and his chest goes tight, and his mind can go blank, at least for a while. 

—

It’s the height of summer and Paris is stiflingly, unbearably hot, the air sticky and painful to breathe. Aramis’ grandparents have a little cottage on the coast in Brittany, and so they all take the train to the seaside together, watching France fly past through the window. 

The first night they build a bonfire on the beach and bring wine and whisky and beer and get drunk. They throw twigs and pebbles into the fire just to watch sparks fly and take turns trying to play songs on an old acoustic guitar they found in the house. D’Artagnan turns out to be good at it, and he blushes when everyone swears and compliments him and asks him to play more, and his cheeks are red and he’s glowing in the firelight as he sings and his fingers dance across the strings with ease and grace and skill.  

Aramis takes an empty wine bottle and sets it in the sand and drunkenly insists that they play spin the bottle, even though the four of them are all already lovers and the bottle won’t spin in _sand_ and really it’s just an excuse to do nothing but kiss and drink and kiss more. After a while Athos’ skin feels too hot from the flames and his lips feel fragile and burnt so he gets up and walks to the edge of the water, a half empty bottle of wine held loosely in one hand. He stands barefoot with his jeans rolled up and lets the waves lap his skin. It’s bitterly cold, and he stares out at the sea and thinks about what it would be like to walk out and just keep walking until the water closed over his head and filled up his lungs and he wonders what would get him first, the cold or drowning. When he breathes through his mouth he can taste the salt in the air and he takes another step so that the water pools around his ankles. His heart is in his mouth; he swallows it down with a mouthful of cheap wine.  

And then suddenly his reverie is broken by the sound of d’Artagnan whooping and yelling behind him and then the boy is rushing in nothing but his underwear into the sea, chased closely by Aramis and Porthos in similar states of undress. D’Artagnan is swearing and screaming about how _fucking cold, jesus fuck_ the water is, and then he’s close again, taking Athos’ hands both of his wet cold ones and pulling him in too. He stumbles further into the water, leaving his bottle in the sand, and Porthos sends a wave of icy water crashing over him as soon as he’s in range. It’s so cold it takes his breath away, and for a moment he stands stunned and shivering, his heart racing, and then he cracks a smile and forces a laugh and tackles Porthos round the waist. When they stumble out of the water Athos catches d’Artagnan round the neck and they kiss and touch until they fall asleep together in the sand - and he can forget. 

— 

Athos wakes up late one Sunday morning in d’Artagnan’s bed. D’Artagnan is up already, and Athos can hear him singing softly to himself from the kitchen, unselfconscious with nobody there to make him shy. He always wakes first, early mornings ingrained in him from growing up on a farm. For a while he just lies there, his head heavy with a familiar hungover ache, and listens to his lover’s gentle singing. 

Eventually he forces himself up and into the bathroom, meaning to take a cold shower to clear his head. On the edge of the sink d’Artagnan’s razor catches his eye, and for a minute he just looks at it, and imagines breaking the blades out of it and cutting his wrists open there in d’Artagnan’s bathroom. He pictures himself in the bath with his open arms draped over the edges, the water clouding red. His fingers itch for the razor -  

“You want tea or coffee?” 

D’Artagnan calls through from the kitchen, and suddenly his thoughts are filled with images of d’Artagnan finding his bloodless body, images of his face turning pale and his hands shaking and his mouth open in shock and despair and Athos feels sick to his stomach and his knees go weak and has to clutch at the edge of the sink for support.  

He tries to steady his breathing, splashes cold water hard over his face and neck, grits his teeth. And then he goes through to the kitchen and there’s d’Artagnan, beautiful d’Artagnan in nothing but a towel whose hair is still wet from the shower and pushed back from his face, whose soft tan skin is just a little damp, his face lighting up when he sees Athos.  

D’Artagnan’s breath is stolen from him all of a sudden as Athos grabs him by the hips and kisses him like his life depends on it, backing him up until he hits the counter and then hitching him up onto it. His towel falls away forgotten and his fingers scramble to pull open Athos’ shirt, breath quick and hot on Athos’ cheek. He smells like fresh lemony shower gel and coconut shampoo and toothpaste. Their hands are everywhere and d’Artagnan’s legs are tight around his waist, pulling him close while Athos holds his thigh and his hip with a grip tight enough to bruise. Athos fucks him hard right there on the counter, d’Artagnan’s head bowed and his hair in his face and his nails scraping red welts across Athos’ shoulders, Athos’ face pressed into d’Artagnan’s neck with teeth and tongue so that by the time they’re done and d’Artagnan is panting, quivering against him he’s covered in sweet pink and purple bruises, blossoming like flowers on his skin from shoulder to throat.  

Athos stands between d’Artagnan’s legs and kisses him gently, lovingly, holding his face in his hands, feeling him real and warm and alive. It makes his chest ache, with love and longing and something he can’t put his finger on. D’Artagnan laughs shakily and murmurs _wow,_ pushing his hair back off his face and wrapping himself back up in his towel, bowing his head to hide his blush and his grin. Athos pours coffee for them both and hops up onto the counter next to his boyfriend, and d’Artagnan leans into his shoulder, flushed and giggly and happy, his weight on Athos’ side comforting.  

He feels warm and content and he doesn’t think about dying again until the end of the day.

—

 

The four of them are at Aramis and Porthos’ apartment, and Porthos is making dinner because he’s the only one of them who can really cook anything more complicated than toast. Athos is sitting with d’Artagnan in his lap and doing nothing much but kissing him and playing lazily with his long hair in his fingers until Porthos shoves a bowl of ripe strawberries into his hands. 

“Here’s your job, you lazy sod,” Porthos tells him when he raises an eyebrow, and gestures to the counter with the wooden spoon in his hand, “go chop those for me.”

D’Artagnan groans with protest as he’s turfed out of Athos’ lap and comes to sit next to him at the counter, head on his chin. Aramis hands Athos a knife with a black handle and the blade slides through the fruit like it’s nothing and syrupy red juice spills onto the chopping board. Athos’ breath catches in his throat. He stares down at the knife in his hands, the blade sticky with strawberry juice, and runs his thumb absently along the edge. He wonders how well it would cut through flesh, imagines the thin and tender skin at his wrist breaking open under it. His breathing is hazy, chest starting to ache. 

“Let me do that,” d’Artagnan’s hand covers his, prying his fingers away from the knife. His voice is soft but quick with worry, and Athos realises the room has gone quiet. He looks up in time to catch d’Artagnan exchanging a frightened glance with the others. 

“Here,” Aramis says quickly, and presses a glass into Atho’s hands, “you lay the table for me.”  

As he turns away, he imagines shattering the glass against the table and slitting his throat with the shards.  

— 

D’Artagnan has never been to the top of the Eiffel tower. The others, who have lived in Paris for several years longer than he has, are entirely disenchanted with it, but d’Artagnan is stubborn and sets up a tireless campaign of whining and pleading and bribing them with whispered promises of filthy delicious things until at last they give in. They stand in line for what feels like a decade, surrounded by tourists and flies. All three of them glaring daggers at d’Artagnan, who spends the whole wait pretending not to notice them and trying resolutely not show how hot and tired he is too. 

When they reach the top of the tower d’Artagnan’s energy is somehow magically renewed, and he stands beside Athos excitedly pointing out the sights to a very patient Aramis. Porthos stands as far back from the edge as he can, gripping a bottle of water and claiming that he’s trying to stay in the shade. Aramis knows he’s scared of heights, and they don’t push it.  

Athos is gripping the rail, silent, staring down at the concrete below. In his head he has thrown himself over and he’s falling, falling, air rushing past so cold and so fast it freezes his skin. His body is broken on the ground, bones crushed, unrecognisable.  

A warm face presses in against his neck, soft lips against his skin. D’Artagnan. “Isn’t it beautiful?” 

Athos turns to him, studies his warm brown eyes, his long, soft lashes. He cups his face in his both of his hands, making d’Artagnan smile so that the corners of his eyes crinkle, and feels the gentle scratch of stubble on fingers.  

“Yes,” he murmurs, his voice not coming easily. He presses his lips firmly to d’Artagnan’s pretty plump ones, feeling his lover sigh softly with contentment. “Beautiful.” 

—

At first, Athos thinks he’s dreaming. The blood on his hands doesn’t feel like his own, and he should be familiar enough with it, by now, to be able to tell. Thick as molasses, black as oil, slip sliding through his fingers, stinking of iron. He can’t think how it got there. With this much blood, he thinks, there should be pain, but he can’t seem to pinpoint a source of it — after a long moment, he realises it’s because there isn’t just one source. It’s everywhere.  

Someone screams, and keeps screaming. Someone cries out his name; it echoes from far away, from the other end of a tunnel. It rings and rings, until all at once it doesn’t anymore. All at once there is silence. The pain disappears. For a fleeting, blessed moment, Athos thinks he might have found absolution.  

— 

He wakes up a day later in a hospital bed and the screaming is gone but the pain has returned and he knows at once he was wrong. When he cracks his eyes open, blinks against the assaulting bright light, the headache that hits him is ten times worse than any hangover he remembers having before in his life. Something aches in his chest, in his ribs.  

There’s something warm and heavy weighing down his mattress. When he manages to make his eyes focus in the right direction, he finds it’s d’Artagnan, asleep with his head on the edge of the bed and his hand on Athos’ thigh, breathing evenly, looking haggard even unconscious. Athos lifts a hand to stroke back his hair from his brow, and takes in the bandage around his wrist, the needle in the back of his hand, the gauze, the tape.  

D’Artagnan wakes the moment Athos touches him, lifts his head with a jolt as if the contact ran a current through him. He looks at him with wide, damp eyes. Athos wipes a tear from his cheek with the pad of his thumb, and his throat is dry and his voice cracks when he says _I’m sorry._  

“I’ll forgive you,” d’Artagnan tells him, his own voice just as rough, taking Athos’ hand gently in his own and kissing his palm. “But you’d better apologise to the others, too. You scared us all half to death.”  

Aramis and Porthos show up only minutes later with cardboard cups of shitty hospital coffee, slightly red-eyed the pair of them, but smiling. Trying to make him laugh, even though it’s agony on his cracked ribs. They pull up plastic chairs to the side of his bed and all four sit close. Porthos’ hand has hardly left the small of Aramis’ back since they entered the room; Aramis’ hand has settled firmly on Athos’ knee; d’Artagnan would practically have climbed into bed with him, if a nurse hadn’t come by and told him off.  

“Serves you right,” Porthos says gruffly, when one of his jokes makes Athos wince in pain from the slightest chuckle. “Maybe that’ll teach you to look both ways before you cross the road.”  

“Clearly we can’t let him out on his own anymore, if this is what happens when we leave him unattended for five minutes,” Aramis adds, and pats Athos’ leg a touch too hard.  

They play along, as if it was an accident, and Athos is grateful for it. They look the other way when his sleeves ride up, and he’s grateful.  

— 

His recovery is slow. Broken ribs don’t mend easily. But they do mend, and his lovers delight in his inability to protest against their constant attentions. He’s barely left alone for a minute at a time. Not that he minds too much; he sleeps, mostly, and there are worse things to wake up to than Porthos on his sofa, laughing at some nonsense on the TV, or Aramis in his kitchen, singing absently in Spanish, or d’Artagnan in his bed, half asleep himself, a hand protectively over one of his own.

— 

A few months later, Aramis’ grandfather dies, peaceful, asleep in his bed. The next night, his grandmother passes the same way.  

Aramis inherits the little house in Brittany. They have the funeral nearby, take the ashes to scatter at sunset on the beach. Trousers rolled up, Aramis wades in knee-deep, unstoppers the urn, lets the wind and the waves take them. For a while the others watch him from the sand, allow him his moment, before they join him in the water.  

He’s misty-eyed, but smiling. Porthos goes to his right, strokes back his hair and kisses his shoulder. Athos goes to his left, touches his arm, his own displays of affection always a little subtler, quieter, though no less true. D’Artagnan puts himself beside Athos, and leans against him. 

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it,” Aramis says after a while, looking out over the water, watching it turn pink as the sun dips, addressing all of them. “They loved each other so much, one couldn’t live without the other. They were never meant to be apart. Made for each other.” 

  
Athos feels the truth in his words, immediate and inescapable, and heavy. Feels it in the easy weight of d’Artagnan against his side, the warmth of Aramis’ hand as he clasps Athos’ own briefly, the way Porthos looks at him, at all of them, as they wander back to the sand. 

Made for each other. One of those obvious truths, that he’s known so innately for so long he’s never had to stop to realise it the way he is now. 

He pours everything he has into Aramis, Porthos, d’Artagnan when they fall into bed later, in the early hours, all salt-kissed and windswept and hotly in love. Athos doesn’t tell them again that he’s sorry — he doesn’t like to repeat himself, and besides, he knows they’ve forgiven them. He doesn’t tell them that he won’t try to leave again, that he knows now that they’re the same way, none without the other, all for one. Instead he kisses it into their mouths, touches it into their skin, tells them without saying a word.  

Later, as he lies half-awake, the others already asleep — Porthos with a heavy arm across his waist, Aramis languidly draped over his other side, d’Artagnan sandwiched contentedly somewhere in the middle, exactly where he likes it — Athos realises that for all the time he spent that day, gazing into the sea, thinking of death — he never once thought of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> p.s. yes, this is romanticised to hell and back - there's your disclaimer. bisous :*


End file.
